


White blank page

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, Fluff, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Panic Attacks, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:00:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a voice. <em>No please, leave me alone, I’m suffocating, there isn’t enough air for me let alone the both of us, I can’t breathe, can’t...</em></p><p>But the voice insists. It’s warm and clear and hoarse and gentle, and it echoes through the buzzing in his head. “Enjolras, can you hear me?”</p><p>Someone is closer, he can feel it, someone is kneeling near him. His vision is going black. </p><p>He knows that voice, somehow he wants to grip from it yet he’s sure he hates it, he can’t now, he needs to be alone, suddenly there is too much air, his head is filling light, his heartbeat frenzied and irregular against his ribs.</p><p>“Enjolras, will you let me help you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	White blank page

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Panic attacks.  
> I'm sorry if I wrote anything wrong about panic attacks but I understand they're different from person to person. This mostly is a description of my experiences.  
> I'm not entirely happy with the dialogue in the end... -.-  
> The title comes from the Mumford and Sons song 'White Blank Page'.

_You desired my attention, but denied my affections_

_White Blank Page - Mumford and Sons_

The page is still blank, as was forty minutes ago.

He isn’t Jehan, he’s no poet. But he knows that if his fingers don’t actually move and write something more than that tiny spot of blue ink on the top left corner his head will keep spinning and the cold sweat on his brow and neck will not dissolve to harmless water.

Sometimes he tries to remember how it all started.

Apparently it is impossible. He can only recall disgust and exasperation and annoyance, he can only remember rolling his eyes and wanting to punch the sarcastic expression off his face. He can’t remember the point where things changed, he doesn’t know when exactly he started wondering how it’d feel to run his fingers through those dark, wild curls, when he first dreamt of his blue, bitter glance or when he first resisted the urge to shut him up with pressing his lips on his own.

Everything had been going according to plan. He had managed to hate Grantaire, and Grantaire had admittedly helped in that quest, but lately the man had started showing up in the Musain sober, he had started participating, he was different, he was smiling, he was chatting with Feuilly and Bossuet, he was working on the posters with Feuilly and Jehan, he was a different man, always teasing him but with an unfamiliar kindness in his voice and he didn’t occupy himself with games of bras de fer with Bahorel anymore, instead he rested his freshly shaved chin on his fist and listened to what Enjolras had to say, with the same unfaithful look, but now mixed with a hint of vivid interest.

He knows that he should be constructing a brief plan of his essay on this blank page, but his head seems unable to focus on any kind of planning or thinking right now. He considers the possibility of taking a break to rest his spinning head for a while, but _what_ exactly will he be taking a break from? You need to have worked before for a break to have an actual meaning and Enjolras has not managed to write a single sentence the whole afternoon.

If only he had taken his medication that morning… If only he’d bought it after returning from classes… Now he knows that he can’t go out, no, his pulse picks up only at the idea of dragging his tired, shaky body out there after getting dressed, and speaking to people, and actually having to walk all the way to the pharmacy.

It’s only four thirty eight. If he manages to start his plan by four forty five he will have finished it until five thirty. And then there’s three and a half hours until the meeting which means that he’ll be able to finish half of it and take a glimpse of his notes… But that means no shower. There won't be enough time for him to take a shower and even though he’s already taken one in the morning he feels far too sweaty and sticky and disgusting and the skin of his hands and his feet is itchy it's like ants are slowly climbing under his socks and beneath his sleeves and he shuts his eyes tightly because he needs to scream.

He needs a fuckin’ shower before he goes, or else everything will go straight to hell. Only he doesn’t have time. It’s already four forty one. The tricolor clock on his wall –a gift from Courfeyrac- is ticking slowly and he wishes he could synchronize the thud of his blood beneath his meninges with the seconds of the clock but his pulse is far quicker, almost irregular, and the page is still blank.

He picks up the pen and takes a deep breath. He’s going to start it now and everything will go according to plan. And tomorrow morning he’ll have his medication and he’ll sit down and work on his essay and his article and his speech and everything will get in place again.

Only it isn’t the only thing. He wishes his mind would cooperate and focus on the white page but this essay is not the only thing. It’s also the class, the class that he missed today because his alarm didn’t go off and he barely managed to have a shower when he realized how late he was and had to burst out of the house. He didn’t have time for a coffee, or for brushing his teeth and his clothes were mismatched and he _hates_ it for hours when his clothes don't match and when he hasn’t brushed his teeth, no matter how many mints Joly can provide him with.

But he missed the class anyway, and it was an important lecture, he rushed after his professor to ask for notes afterwards but he only received a disapproving glance and he felt like a child being scolded, he _hates_ being looked down upon.

How is he going to take notes for that lesson? He knows for a fact that Bahorel didn’t attend –when does he?- and he desperately needs them because he already was quite insecure about it.

And the phone call. Of course there was a phone call. What’s the point in the existence of a self-absorbed, homophobic father if he doesn’t call every now and then to remind you how much he really disapproves of your choices and how little you are apparently going to do with your life. It’s not that Enjolras usually minds, his father can say whatever the fuck he wishes, only today the tension transcending through the phone creeps from his head to his toes and it takes a while for his feet to move and for him to walk away, his shoulders and neck stiff by his overall weariness.

Okay, it’s four forty five. He needs to start _now_ if he wants things to get better. He’s already fucked this day completely and he reminds himself that he can’t earn the lost time he spent distracted and nursing a headache, but if he doesn’t start working _now,_ on this very instant, then things will only get worse.

_Worse._

If only he had taken his medication…

Only the idea of not managing to eventually start his work right now makes his breathing shallow and labored and he’s rubbing his temple with the bridge of his hand, applying a little more pressure than normal, and God what if it gets worse, what if he doesn’t even finish the essay tonight? How will he manage to catch up with everything else? He hasn’t cooked anything for dinner and Combeferre has promised his sisters to take them out for lunch and he won’t come home until after the meeting and Enjolras _will_ need something to eat then even though he’s not hungry right now but oh, shit. Shit. It’s four forty six. A lost minute out of his schedule suddenly makes everything seem darker and the walls of the study are steadily crowding around him, and the air of the room seems to not be enough.

He grabs his pen and makes another spot on the blank page, willing to start this time, free from any distraction, but deep inside he knows he _can’t._

Because _Grantaire._

He really tried to stop himself when he first realized, but the thought of the man, _millions of thoughts_ really, would never leave his head and soon he accepted the fact that he had feelings for Grantaire and even he, who never was familiar with _that_ kind of feelings should now secretly accept Courfeyrac’s teasing stoically, as well as Combeferre’s meaningful looks behind his glasses. He hates the fact that he doesn’t really _hate_ Grantaire, or maybe he does, but at the same time he loves him with all his being. It's something he’ll never admit to anyone, let alone to himself. But deep inside he knows that he can do nothing about it.

No, he's tried. He really has. He's made an admirable effort to stop himself. He even agreed to go out on a _date_ of all things, which Courfeyrac had been trying to arrange for him with a friend for literally _ages,_ not that he had time for any affair at all in first place when there were much higher causes to be attended, but it didn’t help nevertheless. The guy he went out with was considerably nice but it just didn’t work for him. He ended it politely and the guy didn’t seem willing to try more. He probably understood.

But he had achieved to keep his feelings under control. Until now he hid them excellently and they never interfered with his work, studies, activism and other deeds. He still fought about the man’s pessimistic opinions and his constant mocking when it came to their ideas, they kept being casual, almost indifferent towards one another while they were calmer, and he watched the brunet getting pissed drunk every night with the same disgust he had always felt in the past. He was keeping it under control. He thought he could go on living with it.

Not for long. He knows he can’t deny it anymore, he can’t deny the pang of pain in his stomach every time a drunk –or worse, a sober- Grantaire makes fun of him, and reminds him that he doesn’t believe in anything Enjolras fights and cares for. He can’t deny the tightness of his chest every time when Grantaire actually shoves aside his beliefs –or lack of- and cooperates, contributes, gets along with the others, laughs and smiles and works in a way he never will with him. Enjolras knows he never will receive the affectionate hugs that are addressed to Jehan and Éponine, the full of respect smiles Combeferre and Feuilly are granted with and the beautiful sound of his careless laughter that he shares with Courfeyrac and Bahorel. But no, Grantaire hates him, it’s so obvious that it hurts.

Oh God, how it _hurts._

His head hurts. It hurts and it’s spinning. His stomach is empty yet his whole body feels full, ready to explode. Suddenly the collar of his shirt is too tight around his neck, he can feel his erratic pulse on his throat as he tries to readjust it and breathe. He knows that if he had taken his medication he wouldn’t feel like he couldn’t breathe, like he was underwater. But he is. He’s underwater like he was yesterday evening in the shower, right after the meeting.

Grantaire had brought a girl at the meeting yesterday. She was a pretty little thing, with blond hair that reached her mid back. His hand rested on her waist during the whole time and Enjolras got distracted several times. A lump had come to settle on his throat and he knew that Combeferre had noticed his uneasiness. His insides burnt with jealousy and defeat. Grantaire whispered something in her ear and they both laughed, tilting their heads back. It was beautiful when he laughed, a clear, hoarse sound that came deep from his chest. Enjolras had tried to turn his face to the opposite direction but he couldn’t stop staring at him.

And it hurt.

When he returned home he got into the shower and let the water pour on his hair, shoulders and tensed face. He was way too absorbed in the rhythmical sound and the warmth that soothed his sore muscles to hear Courfeyrac who entered the bathroom and sat himself on the lid of the toilet.

“Hey Enj, I have another dude you might be interested in!”

“Fuck Courfeyrac, I’m having a _shower_!”

“Calm down, man, I can’t see anything! You’ve pulled the curtain! You’re no fun at all…”

“We can discuss this later, okay?”

“No, not okay! You’ll go out with Jacques. He plays basketball and he is. So. HOT!”

Enjolras had shut his eyes and let the hot water fall on his hair. “Right,” he’d said absent-mindedly. “You’ll tell me about him later.”

“Okay but you’re definitely coming to the Corinthe tonight! Grantaire said he’ll bring some friends…”

The water kept falling and Enjolras felt like drowning in, images of _friends,_ of the blonde and Grantaire holding hands and tilting their heads towards each other and maybe fuckin’ hard against a mattress after a party twirling in a whirlpool in his mind.

The tricolor clock ticks five. Enjolras’ heartbeat quickens. His hands are shaking slightly and he can hardly control the nervous chewing of his lips and of the inside of his cheek anymore. He digs his short nails in the skin of his palms until he feels the pain piercing through his flesh. The seconds in the clock continue ticking and subconsciously he counts them, five and thirteen seconds, five and eighteen seconds, a minute past five, and the itching on Enjolras’ skin is spreading underneath his insufferably tight clothes and he wishes he could peel them off him but his hands are shaking and he’s biting his lip until he’s dug a hole in his flesh and the metallic taste of his blood fills his mouth.

The clock is ticking and his heartbeat is far from synchronized with it anymore. It’s a loud cacophony pounding in his ears and he keeps staring at the white blank page that lies in front of him.

Fuck, he is fucked. He hasn’t even started.

His face is covered in cold sweat, his t-shirt feels too tight around his neck and chest. He hasn’t cooked for dinner, he hasn’t ironed his clothes, when will he finish that book he borrowed from Joly...

There is blood in his mouth, his hands are stiff and he can’t move them anymore, he thinks of the meeting, he doesn’t even remember what they’re going to talk about. Everything in his mind is a blurry dark haze, he can’t remember a thing, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to write in that damn essay and he knows it’ll be awful, he can’t organize the meeting for tonight, Grantaire hates him.

He hates him, he knows he hates him and suddenly there is no more air in the room. He can’t breathe, God he can’t breathe and he slips from his chair, ending on the floor with his knees bent near his body, he’s frantically biting the corner of his lip and he’s tearing more flesh as if the pain is going to help him clear his mind only more blood is filling his mouth and he can’t breathe, the walls are closing in and he’s suffocating, he’s shaking as a leaf and he’s trying to take deep breaths because the air is not enough, it _can’t_ be enough, he’s fucked this up, he’s so fuckin’ _useless_ and he can’t even breathe, he can’t even achieve that, if only Combeferre was here, if he had taken his medication, if Combeferre was _here.._.

Somewhere between the buzzing of his head and the cacophony of his heartbeat he hears a key turning in the lock but he can’t think properly, it can’t be Combeferre though he wishes he'd be, Combeferre would know how to help him breathe, Combeferre would be able to find a solution because the air in the room clearly is not enough and he’s wheezing, his fingers tightly gripping in his hair and pulling but he can’t even feel the pain because he feels numb, he can’t control his breathing and the world is slowly blurring before his eyes which he can’t keep open anymore.

And then a voice. _No please, leave me alone, I’m suffocating, there isn’t enough air for me let alone the both of us, I can’t breathe, can’t!_

But the voice insists. It’s warm and clear and hoarse and gentle, and it echoes through the buzzing in his head. “Enjolras, can you hear me?”

He knows that voice, somehow he wants to grip from it yet he’s sure he hates it, he can’t now, he needs to be alone, suddenly there is too much air, his head is filling light, his heartbeat erratic and irregular against his ribs.

Someone is closer, he can feel it, someone is kneeling near him. “Enjolras, will you let me help you?”

 _Yes, yes, please help me, please!_ He somehow manages to nod and he can hear a whimper escaping his throat only it is distant and it doesn’t feel like it belongs to him.

“Good, listen to me. It’s Grantaire. It is going to be alright, Enjolras, I promise, I’m here…”

_Grantaire. Grantaire. Oh God no, it isn’t going to be alright, nothing is going to be alright, he can’t fuckin’ breathe…_

“You need to breathe. Can you let off your hair? Let off your hair please, pull your fingers away slowly… yes, well done, Enjolras.”

His fingers are leaving his hair and he feels warm, strong hands wrapping around his own, holding him steadily. “Good, you can do it. You need to breathe. Not like that, you’re hyperventilating.” _There isn’t air, there just isn’t air._ Enjolras doesn’t know whether he’s shouting or not speaking at all, but Grantaire is reading his mind nevertheless and he holds his hands securely, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “There is enough air, Enjolras. I need you to concentrate. You are hyperventilating, you’re taking _too much_ air. You need to find a rhythm, alright?” His voice is comforting, steady and warm, like hot coffee or chocolate and caramel and a slow, soothing shower. “Can you try to open your eyes?”

Enjolras nods and his eyes slide open. He realizes that they’re swelling with tears and the room is spinning violently around him but soon his gaze focuses in Grantaire’s blue glance, his face is calm and lit by a gentle smile, he has never seen him like that and Grantaire is breathing slowly, obviously, for Enjolras to follow him.

“Follow my rhythm, inhale and count to five, then exhale for five more, alright? Come with me,” Grantaire draws in a lungful of air. “One two three four five,” he exhales deeply, “…two three four five.”

There is air, there is air but Enjolras can’t breathe, he’s panting and his vision is blurry and God, tears are burning in his eyes, he needs to stop, he needs to breathe. “Can’t…” he hears himself wheezing.

“You can, of course you can,” murmurs Grantaire soothingly. “Concentrate, follow me,” and then Grantaire is holding Enjolras’ hand steadily and bringing it on his own chest, pressing it over the soft fabric of his hoodie. “One two three…” Grantaire is breathing slowly, holding Enjolras’ hand firmly above his heart and Enjolras allows himself to be lost in the rhythmical rising and falling of the other man’s chest. His eyes are fixed in Grantaire’s encouraging, blue ones, the thumping of his strong, steady heartbeat beneath his palm soon wrap him in a veil of warmth and security and Enjolras soon finds himself slowing down to the pace of Grantaire’s breathing.

When his head stops spinning and leaves him only with a faint blurriness, and his breathing grows steady, Grantaire gives him a huge smile of crooked teeth. “Well done, you’re alright now, you did great.”

“I’m sorry,” whimpers Enjolras while the most painful embarrassment starts burning in his chest. “I’m so, so sorry…”

“Shh…” Grantaire brings something cold to his lips. “It’s water, I had a bottle in my pocket. Take slow, small sips.” Enjolras drinks greedily and the water immediately helps things to clear up around him. Grantaire has leant closer as he holds the bottle and Enjolras can feel his warm breath brushing on his face. He had expected it to smell of alcohol and cigarettes, but instead it’s a faint scent of oranges and some cheap after shave that covers him and surprisingly is not entirely unpleasant. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You’re working yourself too hard.”

“If you hadn’t come…”

“I only came to leave you some drafts for the leaflets. Courfeyrac gave me his spare key. Don’t think about it, you’re alright now.”

“No,” murmurs Enjolras, pulling his knees closer to his body as a barrier between them. “Can’t you see? It’s not alright.”

He realizes that he hasn’t taken his hand away from Grantaire’s chest all this time, and he can feel the man’s heartbeat accelerating beneath his touch. “What do you mean, Enj?” he mutters.

“It’s not alright because I can’t help it anymore,” Enjolras says in an almost choked voice, turning his face away from Grantaire. “I can’t help it and I can’t stop you from bringing blondes to the meetings and I can’t make you believe and I can’t prevent you from hating me but I can’t stop it, I _love you_ and this is not going to change and no matter how much I’m trying to control my feelings I can’t, and it most definitely is _not_ alright…”

Grantaire is gaping before him as Enjolras' hand falls slowly near his side. The man’s pale blue eyes are open widely and his jaw hangs slack. “How… Enj, are you feeling alright?”

“Yes,” Enjolras’ voice now comes out harsh, hoarse, and he doesn’t dare to look at Grantaire anymore. “I’m feeling perfectly alright. Thank you for helping me. You… you can go now. I’ll see you at the meeting.”

“Meeting postponed,” says Grantaire sternly, grabbing Enjolras’ hands in his own and not letting him go. “You’re not going anywhere tonight. You’ll stay here to rest.” There is a pregnant silence in which Enjolras tries to pull his trembling hands away, but in vain. “Enjolras, I seriously don’t know what you’re saying or if you haven’t hit your head or something, but no matter what you feel,” his voice softens and he puts his thumb under Enjolras’ chin, forcing him to face him. “You can at least know that I believe in you.”

Enjolras stares at him with a savage expression. “Grantaire, please stop…”

“I fuckin' _love_ you, Enjolras, and I know I’ll regret saying this but I just need you to know. I love you more than anything in the world, and 'veI never felt for that woman or for anyone else like I feel for you...”

Enjolras’ heart is racing frantically in his chest. “Are you… are you teasing me? Because Grantaire…”

Grantaire laughs incredulously, almost bitterly, opening his eyes in bewilderment. “This is the most absurd thing I've ever heard! I love you, Enjolras, you’re the only thing in my life that I’ve ever loved that way!”

Enjolras is breathless. “I thought you’d hated me. You... you always...”

“No, _you_ always hated me, because I was useless and sarcastic and…”

Enjolras shakes his head incredulously. His voice is sharp and croaked when he speaks. “Shut up!”

“Were you being serious? When you… you know, when you said... that?”

The blonde nods, his heart leaping at the startled expression of the other man. “Every single word.”

“Jesus fuck, Enjolras, I can’t believe it…” It's Grantaire's turn to almost pant now, unable to control his frenzied breathing. 

“I hate you, you know,” groans Enjolras softly.

He is silenced by Grantaire’s lips which are pressed on his own, pulling him to a warm, loving kiss.

Enjolras can finally breathe.

On the next morning, the white page is not blank anymore. On it, one can read three words.


End file.
